The rooftop was quiet, save for the low hum of Gotham far below—a symphony of sirens, engines, and broken dreams. Rain drizzled from a sky weighed down by storm clouds, slicking the edge of Wayne Tower as Bruce stood with his cape drawn tight, shadowed in silence. Dick was beside him, tense, eyes fixed on the figure across from them.

Red Hood stood still, helmet off, red domino mask barely hiding the fury and heartbreak etched across his face.

It had taken them too long to see it. Too long to realize that the man behind the mask—the killer, the vigilante, the ghost—was Jason.

Bruce’s son. Dick’s little brother.

Now there were no secrets. No denials.

Only the space between them, thick with everything that had gone unsaid. Grief. Guilt. Rage. And the fragile, flickering hope that maybe it wasn’t too late.

“Say something,” Jason muttered, voice rough from the grave and from everything that happened after.

Bruce stepped forward.

“I thought I lost you.”